


Death Becomes Us

by Lyssandra_Med



Series: One-Shot [46]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blackcest (Harry Potter), Dark Hermione Granger, Death, F/F, Hermione Granger Scores a Hat Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23318629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: Hermione's been looking for a reason to let go.She finds one.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Andromeda Black Tonks, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Narcissa Black Malfoy/Andromeda Black Tonks, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: One-Shot [46]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429282
Comments: 15
Kudos: 139





	Death Becomes Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beforeyouspeak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforeyouspeak/gifts), [drD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Reign Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901920) by [drD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/pseuds/drD). 



> Un-edited
> 
> Inspired by Doc's lovely interpretation of Narcissa as the lynchpin of the Black Trio and weird thoughts my brain had.

Walls painted black, floor polished to a mirror shine, and a ceiling so high above her and lit with a beautiful chandelier. Against the wall that faced her lay a magnificently crafted fireplace that looked to have been built directly from obsidian glass. The bricks were perfectly cut and glinted in the splintering light, shaped and formed to look menacing and  _ cold. _ The heat that poured outwards was bathing her with sweat that fell in slick streaks, droplets just barely clinging onto the turn of her skin.

It was all too hot.

Atop the mantlepiece lay chalices of gold and silver, encrusted with jewels and some that appeared to be nothing more than simple wooden cups. Daggers lay upon metal tines, their blades polished and gleaming. Interspersed lay other items, other baubles, other  _ things _ that she could not name. Shapes and forms and little interweaving portions that ticked or moved or swung without any sense of friction.

They gave her a headache the longer that she stared. Eventually she managed to tear her eyes away and off towards the rest of the room, well aware that there were  _ other _ things to look at and who knew how short her time here was.

Flanking either side of the fireplace were twinned inset bookshelves that seemed for all the world to have been  _ grown _ from the surrounding ebony wood rather than  _ built  _ into it. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or maybe there was a more magical reason to explain it all away.

She didn’t care, not truly. The desire that flooded over her managed to swamp any thoughts of  _ why _ and replaced them all with questions of  _ what. _ What did those shelves hold? All those dusty spines were calling to her as she ran a broken fingernail across the faded letters and glanced all up and down.

_ So many books! _

Ancient tomes that were wrapped and bound in fading papyrus, others seeming to have been constructed using a far more leafy substance. There were even a few that she was sure had been crafted and built using human skin, and still more that were more conventional in nature to her naked eye. Hermione swallowed back at the burning desire to open all them up, to sit and devour until all that knowledge was  _ hers _ and hers alone. Swallowed what tasted suspiciously of blood and turned away towards the leftmost wall, eyes dragging as she did so.

The wall itself was nothing special, just wood and flat expanses that stood out only in how modern and ordinary it all was. Portraits and landscapes of a non-magical nature were pinned to that wall, all of them unmoving but all of them masterclass examples of art.

An oddity, really. Here in a home that she was sure was magical lay something that seemed so simple in comparison. 

So very  _ Muggle  _ in nature.

But then again there could very well be a reason for their addition. Perhaps she was somewhere important, somewhere  _ special. _ It could very well be that no living portraiture meant no ears, meant that no one and nothing could come along to see something that they shouldn’t.

Yes, that made the most sense. Surely it was just that the inhabitants of this particular domicile considered it safer to not have spies nailed to their walls.

Hermione twisted around to see the wall that lay behind her, the long stretch of wall holding nothing more than shelving and cupboards hewn from prettied woods and holding beautiful crystal glass. A decanter lay atop of one of the cupboards, its gaze and form condensed into the fashionable looks of a bird. It was something corvid if she were correct and masterfully detailed each and every feather that should have been there, every little twist of beak and talon that could have been presented on the living muse. The interior was empty, a piece likely more decorative than useful but Hermione could still appreciate the art for what it was and not for what it lacked.

Besides, she had never been able to cotton to the taste of Wizarding liquor.

It was vodka for her or bust.

But then again the distinct lack of any seating arrangements in the room was  _ odd _ in the same manner that it was  _ odd _ that she couldn’t recall how she had come to be here.

She just  _ was. _

Pretty room, a quiet space, a fire and a crystal bird. Books. Heat.

Nothing more.

“Welcome, Pet.”

\---

Becoming someone lost upon the battlefield wasn’t an easy task. Or, perhaps it was. Perhaps she simply lacked the necessary skills to fall away into the background of the fighting. Whatever the case was, Hermione soon found herself sprinting for her life from what appeared to be Fenrir Greyback and a large group of Snatchers who had decided  _ she _ was their meal-ticket out of obscurity.

They were winning. They, as in  _ she, _ as in  _ her _ side and  _ her _ compatriots.

Two Horcruxes were down, two shards of Voldemort’s soul burned to ash and dust. Finding the Chalice had been the hardest step yet, both due to it having been locked down inside of Alecto Carrow’s Gringotts Vault and the absolutely monumental amount of pain that had accompanied it.

Pain that she would very much prefer to never experience again.

Three long days and two terrible nights, an untenable amount of time where she wound up locked inside of her own head. She couldn’t exactly tell what had happened to her. There were no real clues. All she knew when it was said and done was that Amycus Carrow had been slain and Alecto was furious, but still alive.

The boys had hauled her out of there on adrenaline and fear alone, and while she was thankful for the rescue she was most certainly not thankful for being plunked into a room that had a massive mirror on one side.

Lightning ran down in forks along her side and back. Bits and pieces and forks of it were peeling across her body in blackened streaks intermixed with flecks of gold. Tanned skin lay underneath, the edges angry and raw and  _ red _ where the scarring met her skin. A stretch marched upwards and around her shoulder to branch off and split until it seemed to cradle her neck itself.

But the worst was her left arm. Instead of smooth skin there now lay arcs and branches all around, thin and pointed and formed into a word.

_ Mudblood. _

It was a marker. A calling. A reminder to her and all the others that in their eyes she was considered tainted,  _ muddied _ and imperfect despite her constant achievement of perfection.

She wore it with pride. Sliced off the bits of her sleeves at the shoulder, let the mark be  _ present _ and  _ livid _ where it glistened in black across her body.

She let it remain, let it be a reminder so that they  _ knew _ who they should fear,  _ knew _ that those they looked down upon would be their very undoing. Who cared if she needed to expend herself, throw herself into spellwork and duelling with all the energy of a lion backed into a cage.

Who cared if her spells were just as vibrant as Harry’s eyes? Who could judge her if the blood that spilt across her hands was just as pretty as her casts? She loved the words they would utter, the screams as they would beg, the  _ fear _ that pervaded them. 

Until now. Until here. Until she was sprinting through the woods from slowly closing foes, a madman who seemed far more wolf than man.

Until she lost.

\---

“So I  _ died?” _ Simmering words. A furious tone. 

_ Anger. _

She had  _ died, _ and right before they were set to win!

“Yes, you died,” the voice whispered, quiet and serene and  _ heavy. _

It was lovely all the same.

Hermione traced the standing form of the older woman with a pair of eyes that refused to remain still. This was no moment for introspection, no space for her to silently observe. For her part the mystery woman kept to herself, her eyes of silver peering out with clear interest from beneath halo of black curls and lips twisted into an all too pretty grin.

Hermione squared and centred herself before clenching her fists and  _ flooding _ magic through her scars. Odd, that. She would have assumed that with death there came a loss of oneself, a moment where nothing worked.

Instead, she stood there and luxuriated as her palms filled with Fiendfyre and her mind set itself on madness.

“Oh, Little Witch, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Hermione startled with a gasp, body whirling around in an instant. Her eyes landed on another woman, blonde this time but so very similar to the other that she could not help but acknowledge them as sisters. Nothing else could explain the way they shared those same cheekbones, those silvered eyes and the lilt to their smirks. Superiority flooded outwards, something else pouring in.

Something she could not parse, for all the darkness in that gaze.

Fine then. She was surrounded.  _ Dead. _ She couldn’t forget that last bit, it was important, it  _ mattered. _

The flames that wreathed her hands grew further in green and flickering gold. Lions danced along her fingertips, snakes curled and writhed and formed thick bracelets. Small birds that were far more in line with the decanter on the cupboard fought and flew from her palms as little messengers of pain. She was ready to immolate them all, ready to just be done with  _ everything _ and  _ everyone _ and burn this bloody room to Hell-

“Oh my, you really know how to pick the feisty ones, Bella.”

Hermione twisted again just as all her flames went out in a puff of smoke and cold that chilled her to the bone. The action wasn’t on purpose, and she felt the loss of that personal heat like a kick to the gut. The new woman that stood across from her held a single finger pointed at Hermione’s chest, and she knew then that it had been this mystery woman’s doing. She was a carbon copy of the first, all curls and darkness but for her hair.

Black traded out for brunette, though the beauty remained the same.

Hermione clenched her jaw and ground her teeth, “The bloody Hell is going on here?”

All of the women smirked as one, all of the women closed in. They glided forward, bodies all clothed in simple black shifts and robes that seemed more smoke than dyed cotton. Hermione could hardly contain the shiver that threatened to wreck itself along her muscles or the sudden sense of all-consuming  _ fear _ that punched itself down her spine.

Nor could she contain the sudden heat that flooded into her core.

“Alright then,” Hermione straightened her back, puffed out her chest and balled up her fists. “So if I’m dead, then who’re all you lot?”

It was the woman with raven coloured hair who spoke first, a smirk upon her face and a hand reached forward to caress the darkened scars of lightning.

“We-”

The brunette moved next, her hand reaching up to Hermione’s hair and fingernails scratching playfully along her scalp.

“Are-”

Hermione caught the game, eyes darting to follow the blonde as she approached and lip caught between her teeth as two pale hands the colour of snow and cold as ice came up to tilt her head backwards by the chin.

“Death.”

Ah. Well then, she had obviously gone off around the bend and ended up falling off the edge.  _ She _ was dead, and  _ they _ were Death, and all of this made no sense at all except that she was likely-

“You’re likely where, Little Witch?” The blonde spoke, her-

“I’m Narcissa, dearie. I’m the youngest and the oldest. You’ll come to know us all-”

“Quite well, I believe. I’m Andromeda,” the woman at Hermione’s side inclined her head in greeting, looking back up with a pleasant smile on her face. “And that one is Bellatrix. She’s the one who felt your anger, the one who convinced us to pull your little thread.”

“Pulled my thread?” Hermione followed Andromeda’s eyes towards where Bellatrix stood, something fluttering to life within her chest when the woman smiled back with the grin of a hyena. “Meaning what exactly? What is all this? Why am I here?!”

The anger was back full bore by the time she finished speaking, a warm mask atop her confusion even though it appeared that the trio could see right through her.

“Well, you’re here because we have need of a new champion. Your little stunt in the woods leads to a rather annoying outcome. Our abacus says one thing but your reality is stubbornly saying something else. We don’t exactly indulge in inaccuracy here,” Narcissa said, moving closer. Her sisters backed off, cut off Hermione’s side and left her to silently step backwards until the wall behind her said she could go no further.

“So what is it exactly you want me to do?” Hermione’s voice wasn’t angry anymore, wasn’t mean or nasty or any of the feelings that she was sure she ought to feel.

All that she  _ could _ feel was a deeply seated spark of interest within her heart. Desire. A _ purpose _ that wound around her brain and mind and heart with all the intensity of a barbed-wire knot.

“We’ll give you something that you need and send you back to finish the job. We cannot intervene directly, so this will have to do. You will complete your task and then we’ll reconvene. Is that alright?” Andromeda finished speaking and lay a hand upon Hermione’s arm, her lithe fingers tracing the branching paths of her scars as another shiver sprinting up the length of Hermione’s body.

She swallowed against the nothing in her throat, “And why exactly would I agree?”

Bellatrix laughed, filled the air with light and music and  _ darkness, _ “Oh Pet, you don’t have a choice.”

Andromeda tilted Hermione’s face, brought lips to her ear, “You see,  _ we _ make the rules dearie. We run the show. You’ll do it.”

“But what if I don’t!” Hermione exclaimed her half-hearted protest with a whine more like a whimper less like a  _ protest. _ Her eyes were wide, her heart beating erratically, mind sprinting across all the open space.

Narcissa drew her forward with hands placed gently upon her cheeks, pulled her and tilted her and lay ruby lips down upon Hermione’s. The taste was simple, it was sweet, it was everything and anything that she could have ever wanted.

_ “We _ are in charge, Little Witch,” Andromeda whispered against her, teeth nipping against the shell of Hermione’s ear.

_ “We  _ get what we want, Pet,” Bellatrix mirrored her sister, teeth and lips latching onto the beating pulse of Hermione’s neck.

_ “We  _ can unleash you _ , _ Hermione. Set you free from your bonds, your labels and expectations,” Narcissa whispered against her lips, a tongue pressing forward to trace the edges of Hermione’s.

Hermione gulped, basked in the heat building in her veins, “How?”

"Simple," Narcissa answered. “Let  _ us _ be your control." 

_ "Okay." _


End file.
